


on the art of deduction

by vivelapluto



Category: Elementary (TV), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, elementary enjoltaire au!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-10-25 17:42:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17729798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivelapluto/pseuds/vivelapluto
Summary: elemenjoltaire, or grantaire, brilliant detective fresh out of rehab, enjolras, his companion who got more than he bargained for, and a killer on the loose that only they can stop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oddlyqueer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddlyqueer/gifts).



There’s a corpse on the ground, its eyes staring at nothing, its limbs twisted in unnatural positions—a wrist bent out of shape, legs askew, neck lolling.

Enjolras looks away. 

When he’d signed up to be a companion, he hadn’t expected  _ this. _

But his client, Grantaire, is a few feet away, pacing back and forth. He peers at the door frame, seemingly inconspicuous until he raps his pen against a notch so slight Enjolras would have never even noticed it. Then, he whirls around to a noticeably bare spot on the ground, laying on his stomach and pressing his ear against it before standing once more. “This wasn’t just a murder,” he concludes.

The police captain’s face is perplexed. “What makes you say that?”

Enjolras’ head is spinning, but he’s more than a little proud as he figures it out just before Grantaire says it.

“There was something here. I don’t know what yet,” he points to that empty space on the ground once more. “It was dragged away. They weren’t the most  _ agile  _ of robbers, though—it seems they hit the doorframe on their way out.”

“They?” The captain questions.

Grantaire nods. “Clearly, there were at least two perpetrators.”

“Thank you for letting us know, Grantaire. We’ll be able to conduct the rest of the investigation on our own.”

Enjolras takes this as a sign that they should be heading out, now, so he loops his arm through Grantaire’s, tugging him towards the door. 

“I’m glad that’s over,” he mutters softly under his breath.

Grantaire’s laugh is a rueful, humorless sound. “Oh, my dear Enjolras, it is far, far from it.”

* * *

 

**One Day Earlier**

Enjolras stood outside the house of his newest client, trying to see what he could decipher about him from the building. Rene Grantaire. Fresh out of rehab, and this time—a first for Enjolras—Grantaire’s father himself had commissioned a companion. There was a shadow of a man visible through the window blinds, though he did not move even as Enjolras rapped on the tarnished silver knocker. Once. Then twice.

“Mr. Grantaire,” he called. “I’m Matteo Enjolras. Your companion? Your father sent me—”

He was mid-sentence when the door was flung open with such force that Enjolras stumbled back a step, catching himself on the rail.

His clients never looked all that presentable; that was part of the job. But the man before him—Grantaire—seemed worse-off than most.

His hair was a chestnut-brown mess of disheveled curls, unkempt and uncombed. He was wearing a wrinkled shirt, the buttons mismatched, and cargo pants with the pockets hanging out. He looked, in Enjolras’ opinion, unhinged in every way. Until Grantaire met his eyes and Enjolras was forced to reconsider.

Unlike the rest of him—chaotic, unpredictable, seemingly somewhere other than here—they were grounded. Hazel, with flecks of green, and a calculated sort of stare that served as a stark contrast to the rest of his appearance. “Ah, Enjolras, wasn’t it?” he said, already turning away from the door. “My father mentioned you, I believe. Or perhaps he didn’t—I don’t pay much attention to what he says anymore.”

He didn’t make any motion for Enjolras to follow; he simply turned away from the door and strode back into the house. Enjolras stood expectantly on the welcome mat for a few long moments before following him inside.

The house was about was well-kept as Grantaire himself, which was to say, it looked like a war zone. Clothes strewn about, furniture cobbled together from dozens of different places—a writing desk that looked to be straight out of an antiques auction beside a flat-screen TV with a large crack through the screen, and a few days worth of takeout bags piled on the kitchen counter.

“Oh, I was just coming in to grab my coat, we really should be going,” Grantaire materialized from a side closet, shrugging on a jacket and sliding a pen and notebook into his pocket. 

Enjolras spun to face him. “Where? Your father hadn’t mentioned anything about—”

“—my work?” Grantaire finished. “No, of course he didn’t.”

“Where do you work, then?” Enjolras asked, more than a little unnerved by the cryptic sort of expression on Grantaire’s face as he traipsed after him.

“Wherever I’m needed,” was the only reply he got, before Grantaire stepped outside, closing the door behind them and securing the locks. 

He walked swiftly, and Enjolras didn’t know if Grantaire was ignoring his questions or if he actually did not hear them.  _ Where are we going? Does your father know? Are you allowed to be doing this?  _ All remained unanswered.

Enjolras huffed out a frustrated sigh, and it was only then that Grantaire turned to him and said, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing too terrible. Just . . .police work, let’s call it.”

Enjolras arched a skeptic brow. “You’re allowed to work with the NYPD?”

“There are some details I’ve chosen not to disclose . . .” 

Realization dawned on Enjolras’ face. He pace quickened, slightly breathless as he tried to keep up with Grantaire’s long strides. “You can’t just—”

“Ah, on that topic, how shall I introduce you to them? I can’t very well tell them who you are, that would compromise all of this. What do people usually do? I’m guessing very few of your clients tell people who you really are.”

It took Enjolras a moment to realize he’d been asked a question. “Companion is what’s usually said,” he replied. He knew, of course, what that undoubtedly implied, but there were few other explanations.

“I see,” Grantaire’s reply came a few beats later. “Companion it is.”

He made a sharp left into an eerily dark alleyway. Enjolras was not proud of it, but he hesitated slightly before following. “And  _ where,”  _ he tried again, “did you say we were going?”

“To catch a killer, of course,” Grantaire replied.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“Are you sure this is legal?” Enjolras whispers. He’s pressed into the passenger seat of his own car, which Grantaire has commandeered, hunched over the driver’s seat.

“Honestly,” he says after a long moment. “I’m really not.” 

They’re outside the apartment building where the body was found, and much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Enjolras can’t help but notice how much more eerie it looks at night. It sends shivers down his spine.

Shadows drape the gaunt windows, and the few lights that are on seem to flicker.

“I thought Captain Valjean said he no longer needed your help with the investigation.”

Grantaire laughs, shaking his head. “Valjean’s a smart man, but he doesn’t pick up on a lot.”

Honestly, Enjolras could say the same about Grantaire. But he doesn’t, pressing his lips together and crossing his arms over his chest. “And what is it that he’s missed this time?”

Grantaire looks over at Enjolras, green eyes glinting. “I’m so glad you asked.”

He reaches over the seat (hand brushing over Enjolras’s, which makes his heart skip a beat for some odd reason he cannot pinpoint), opening the latch to the glove compartment. It pops open, files spilling out.

“When did you—” Enjolras sputters. “This is  _ my car!”  _

“I figured you’d ask; I put them here before we left,” is the only reply Grantaire offers, cryptic as ever as he pulls the folders toward him. “There’s a pattern our dear Valjean doesn’t seem to follow . . .”

He selects a few photographs—Enjolras is less than thrilled when he sees that they depict more bodies—laying them out on the console. “Look at the bullet wound. The location. Always the same. And these murders?” Grantaire pauses. “All within the past few years. Never more than a few months apart. I’m sure there are connections between the targets too, I just need some more time . . .”

Enjolras looks up at him, still not piecing it together. “And what of it?” Then he realizes, the moment Grantaire says, “we’re looking at the work of a serial killer.”

 

**Earlier That Day**

 

Enjolras stepped away from the crime scene, huffing out a sigh of relief. Beside him, Grantaire lingered, still peering over his shoulder.

His eyes, piercing as ever, held a hint of calculation—he was clearly deep in thought. 

Enjolras wasn’t sure what to say to break the silence. When he finally did decide, the words were stilted; if anything, they only served to make things more awkward. “What’s the plan for the rest of the day?”

“Nothing.” Grantaire muttered. “I’ve got to figure out . . .” he trailed off.

Enjolras waited for him to finish, but he never did, quickening his pace down the sidewalk. A few minutes later he turned around suddenly.

“And what about you?” he asked.

“What?”

Grantaire paused, before stammering out. “Any plans?”

Enjolras blinked. The casual attempt at small talk seemed incredibly forced for him. “I was just going to go out with some friends . . . you can join if you’d like?” He wasn’t sure where the invitation had come from, but there it was.

Grantaire shook his head. “It’s better if I don’t.”

“Oh, alright. If you’d like though . . .” He didn’t know why he was being so insistent about this. 

Grantaire paused. A few people stepped around him, muttering under their breath about tourists, but he paid them no attention.

“Perhaps I’ll stop by for a bit,” he decided, his words slow and careful.

Enjolras didn’t know why that answer incited a smile, but he smothered it quickly, stepping onto the street and hailing a cab. “It’s just at a cafe, with some of my friends from—”

Grantaire opened the taxi door, gesturing for Enjolras to get in first and not missing a beat as he said, “law school?”

Enjolras practically fell into his seat, hands freezing as he grabbed for the seatbelt. “How did you—?”

“It’s quite easy to pick up on. What isn’t,” Grantaire shut the car door and Enjolras told the driver the name of the cafe, “is why you would leave a well-paying, stable career for  _ this. _ ” 

He paused.

Enjolras wondered if he was waiting for an explanation. Well, he wasn’t going to get one. Leveling Grantaire with a rather lofty look, he then turned his gaze to outside the window. Was he truly that obvious? It had been nearly two years, yet Grantaire had figured it out in a matter of days.

It wasn’t a feeling Enjolras particularly liked—being read like an open book. He didn’t talk to Grantaire for the rest of the ride to the cafe, part of him regretting his decision to invite him along. How would he even introduce him? His client? His companion? 

He was still speculating when they arrived, when they walked inside and Courfeyrac walked over to him, smiling and draping an arm over Enjolras’s shoulders as he cast a look at Grantaire, leaning in to whisper, “Enj, why didn’t you tell us you had a boyfriend?”

Enjolras stepped away, swatting at Courfeyrac’s arm. “He’s not my— He’s just. A friend,” he stammered out.

He was about to wave Grantaire over so he could introduce himself (and dispel whatever rumors Courf was undoubtedly beginning to spread) but he was already at a table, legs up on the chair in front of him, scribbling away in a notebook like a madman.

“Ah. A _ friend _ ,” Courfeyrac said with a wink. “But really, Enj, there’s no shame, I’ve been with Ferre for nearly a year now—”

“It’s not like that,” Enjolras cut him off, the words tumbling out just a little too quickly. 

“Not  _ yet,”  _ Courfeyrac’s tone was teasing. A moment later he laughed. “Oh,  _ relax _ , Enjy. I’m kidding. Get yourself a coffee, grab a seat . . . clearly you’re still as overworked as ever, even at this new job.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, pulling up a chair. 

The rest of his friends soon filed in, and though Enjolras participated in the conversation—small talk about Courf and Ferre, and the fact that Marius and Cosette were planning a wedding, which soon segued into heated political conversations, which Enjolras usually thrived in—his focus was elsewhere, on the thoughtful hazel eyes trained intently on a notebook, on a man who seemed to hover just outside the group.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras is going to be sick. He shouldn’t have come in at all today, though of course, the more rational side of him knows that was never an option. Grantaire’s father calls almost regularly with updates, and even if he didn’t, there is no excuse for missing work.

He wishes he’d thought of something today, though, standing over the newest victim of their serial killer. His voice is hoarse as he turns to Grantaire, opening his mouth and trying to find something to say that won’t make him sound as fragile as he feels.

But Grantaire speaks first. “You know her. Forgive me— _ knew  _ her.”

Enjolras simply nods in reply. “Have you contacted—” he winces at the soft sound of his own voice. “—the family?”

It’s one of the other detectives who answers. “Yes, her daughter will be here shortly.” 

Enjolras takes another shuddering breath. The room is spinning. He has to remember himself, has to hold himself together for Cosette; he  _ cannot  _ just fall apart, he’s better than this—

Grantaire’s hand is on his arm. It’s probably meant to be comforting, but it only unnerves Enjolras further. He’s still staring at the body. It’s worse than the first, because he can remember just weeks ago when a light shone in those eyes, sitting across the dinner table as she smiled at him.

Now, the light is gone, the eyes closed, her face ashen and pale. Enjolras simultaneously wants to squeeze his eyes shut yet cannot tear his gaze away.

The apartment door flies open with a bang, a cry of anguish causing Enjolras to whirl around. Cosette stands there, blue eyes glimmering with tears that haven’t fallen yet. “Is she—” 

Enjolras is at her side in an instant, straightening his spine with the resolve that he will not fall apart in front of her. Fantine was Cosette’s mother, after all. Enjolras had only reconnected with them a little while ago. 

Folding her small frame against Enjolras’s chest, Cosette’s sobs are shuddering and breathless as they echo throughout the apartment. Most of the officers and detectives look away, averting their gazes respectfully. But Grantaire’s thoughtful, contemplating expression remains, piercing as ever. He walks back and forth across the room, at one point even laying on the ground to press his ear against the floor as though listening for something. 

“Very much the same. There were multiple attackers, again. Came in through that window—” Grantaire points. “But they must have had the key; our victim doesn’t seem the type to be so careless as to leave it unlocked, and there are no signs of forced entry.” 

“What?” Cosette says, extricating herself from Enjolras. 

“It was someone with access to the apartment,” Grantaire repeats. It’s almost infuriating how matter-of-fact his tone is.

“I—” Cosette falters. 

Enjolras takes a shuddering breath. “Are you sure they didn’t pick the lock or something?” he asks.

Grantaire simply shakes his head, providing no further explanation. Turning to Cosette, he says, “I’ll just need a list of everyone who had the keys.” 

Cosette blinks, swiping the still-falling tears away from her eyes. “I don’t know,” she admits helplessly. “I’m sure she had friends who she let visit, but we—” she pauses, looking down. “We haven’t talked much recently.” Her breath catches again. 

Enjolras casts a glare in Grantaire’s direction. “Can we do this later? Clearly she’s not able to answer questions right now.” He huffs out an indignant breath, his loftiness a means of hiding the shock and grief tearing him apart, but most likely coming off as conceited and haughty. 

Grantaire flips shut his notebook. “Alright,” he says, pacing towards the door. “We’ll finish the investigation when Miss Fauchelevent is feeling a bit better, I suppose. Shall we be going then?” he says to Enjolras.

“I’ll be fine, Enj. Marius is on his way over . . . you can go,” Cosette assures him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Enjolras sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will.”

He’s quite proud of himself, really. He manages to keep his composure as they walk out of the apartment, passing an older couple in the elevator, as they make their way through the parking lot—until he’s in the car with Grantaire. “Must you be so  _ insensitive? _ ” he snaps, yanking the seatbelt across his body and fastening it.

Grantaire looks up. “Sorry?”

“Her mother just  _ died,  _ and you’re so preoccupied with who had the goddamn keys to the apartment—”

“—in order to figure out who our perpetrator is before more innocent people die.” Grantaire’s tone is so level it only future spurs Enjolras’s temper.

“Do you even have any sense of emotion? Feelings? Grief? Sensitivity?”

“Don’t you want us to catch the killer?” 

“Yes, but not like this! Not by ignoring the fact that my half-sister’s mother is shot dead on the floor of her apartment!” 

“ _ Ignoring?”  _ something in Grantaire finally seems to snap. “I’m not ignoring it! If anything, you’re so attuned to your  _ feelings  _ or whatever that you’re blinding yourself to the things that matter!”

“That’s rich, coming from someone whose dad needs to hire a babysitter for him so he can’t—” Enjolras stops himself, but it’s too late.

He’s crossed a line, he definitely has. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Save it,” Grantaire says. His tone is cold.

“I just—” Enjolras tries again.

“ _ Save it,”  _ Grantaire repeats.

Enjolras bites his lip, grip tightening on the steering wheel. He stares straight ahead, not saying anything else.

The drive to Grantaire’s apartment is not a long one. But the silence seems to stretch on for hours, and when they do arrive, Enjolras finds himself blinking back tears. 

He wishes he could take it all back. He never should have said anything.

“I’m sorry,” he says again as Grantaire steps out of the car. “I didn’t mean it, I swear.”

His only reply is a forceful slamming of the door. 


	4. Chapter 4

Enjolras doesn’t want to go to work today. Apologies have never been his strong suit, but one is definitely in order after last night. The more aloof, slightly self-righteous part of him reminds him that technically he’d already apologized last night (twice, actually), but he still thinks he should say something.

Grantaire ignores him from the moment Enjolras steps into his apartment, not even casting a glance in his direction. It’s only when they’re walking back to the police department that he finally speaks.

“I can reach out to my father and request a new companion.” 

“You don’t have to.” 

“Don’t I? Clearly to you I’m just a backup, a ‘my law firm didn’t work out so I’m stuck  _ babysitting’—” _

They’re Enjolras’s own words, but it stings to hear them repeated. “Grantaire, I was . . .” He takes a deep breath. “Completely out of line last night. I didn’t mean any of what I said.”

“No,” Grantaire replies shortly. “You meant it; you just didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“I didn’t. Truly. It was just everything with Fantine, and Cosette, and the,” he pauses, grimacing slightly before he says, “ _ murder.”   _

“Alright,” is Grantaire’s only reply, before he swings open the door and steps inside.

Valjean’s there, bags beneath his eyes as he sips from a tall cup of coffee. “Ah, Grantaire,” he says in greeting, “have you unearthed anything new on our killer?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “Has Miss. Fauchelevent been by with the list?” 

“I believe she called saying she would be able to tell us later today.”

“Perfect,” Grantaire replies, dipping his head in a curt nod. “I wanted to speak to you about these murders, actually, Valjean—”

“—Captain,” Valjean corrects, though his tone is easygoing, not at all offended.

“There’s been a few patterns I’ve noticed; I discussed them a bit with my companion and I think he sees them too . . .” Grantaire reaches into his messenger bag, pulling out the case files.

Enjolras starts at the mention of him as Grantaire’s companion. Did this mean they were okay now? That all was forgiven?

He tries for a quick smile in Grantaire’s direction, but is either ignored or rebuffed as Grantaire turns away, opening the case files to talk to Valjean and positioning himself so his back is to Enjolras. It might have been deliberate; there’s really no way of knowing.

Enjolras tugs at the frayed sleeves of his red jacket as Grantaire and Valjean talk in hushed tones, hating that he’s not part of the conversation, but now knowing how he would interject, either. He leans against the wall, not sure what else he could be doing.

Taking out his phone, he texts Cosette, asking if she’s okay and letting her know that he’ll be at the police department when she does stop by. She replies almost immediately that she’s nearly there, and as if on cue, the door swings open and she steps inside, her fiance trailing behind and looking quite bewildered.

Enjolras isn’t used to seeing his half-sister like this, so . . .unkempt. Her hair’s pulled back into a messy bun atop her head, dark circles rimming her blue eyes, which are puffy and red from crying. She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt that Enjolras recognizes as his own. “Hello,” she says, tucking her coffee cup into the crook of her elbow so she can shake Valjean’s hand. 

Reaching into her sweatshirt pocket, she pulls out a crinkled grocery-store receipt. “The list is on the back.”

Grantaire takes it, muttering a harried thank-you as he turns it over, squinting at the slightly smudged writing. “So did you mean to bring a prime suspect with you, or . . .?”

Cosette, who’s found her way to Enjolras’s side, leaning her head against his arm, blinks. “I’m sorry?”

Grantaire points to her fiance—Marius, an acquaintance from Enjolras’s lawyer days—who’s standing off to the side, leaning against the doorframe. “He’s on the list.”

Cosette forces out what Enjolras thinks is meant to be a nonchalant laugh. “Oh, he’s just. . . we’re getting married in a few months, so—”

Grantaire cuts her off. “That’s lovely. But he’s someone who clearly had very easy access to your mother’s apartment, and that makes him a suspect.”

“What?” Marius says, finally speaking. “Listen, man, I didn’t kill anyone.”

“He would never,” Cosette cuts in.

“We just need to ask him a few questions. . .”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras finally says. 

Grantaire’s hazel-green eyes are like daggers as he looks over at him. “Yes?” 

“You really think her daughter’s fiance would—?”

“He’s a suspect.” Grantaire repeated. “Now, if that’s all the oh-so-brilliant insight you have to offer, let’s please get back to the matter at hand. Mr—”

“Pontmercy,” Cosette supplies, voice soft.

“Pontmercy. I just want to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind following me . . .”

That discombobulated expression is still on Marius’s face, but he presses a quick kiss to Cosette’s lips, whispering, “I’ll be fine,” and obliges, following Grantaire.

As soon as he’s left the room, the tension in Cosette’s shoulders dissipate and she finally lets herself break down, burying her face in Enjolras’s shoulder and starting to cry. Enjolras shifts so that he can wrap his arms around her. “We’re going to figure out who did this,” he says, not quite sure if he’s reassuring Cosette or himself.

Thinking about Fantine too much won’t do him any good, so Enjolras tries to let his mind wander. Unfortunately, it wanders right back to Grantaire. He needs to talk to him, apologize again, figure out what’s going on between them

_ Between them.  _ Enjolras resists the urge to roll his eyes at his own thoughts. There’s nothing between them. There  _ should  _ be nothing between them. Enjolras just has to apologize and maintain this  _ entirely professional  _ relationship. Because that’s all it is. That’s all it is that’s all it is that’s all it is . . .

Grantaire reappears a few minutes later with a look of determination on his face.

Marius is not with him. 

Cosette doesn’t move from Enjolras’s side. “Where is he?” she asks, voice still wavering.

“He’ll be back he just, um.” Grantaire closes his eyes, clearly trying to come up with something to say. He looks down at the ground, drags a hand through his hair, drums his fingers against the side of his leg.

“Miss Fauchelevent.” He finally gathers himself. “I know you’ve been through a lot, and I do offer my condolences. But I regret to inform you that your fiance is currently our top suspect in your mother’s murder.”

**Author's Note:**

> so, uh, yeah here's another au that i'm rarely going to update and probably never going to finish. sorry but i hope you like it??


End file.
